July 30, 2012

I pass the Ash Grove many times a week and it hurts each time I do. There are many places throughout Saratoga that have wilted away and turned to dust. I have spent over a half century going past this once beautiful establishment and I felt a need to quick squeeze in a few final words before it is erased completely.

When I was very young the Ash Grove would be our family's destination for holidays and special Sunday dinners. It was a gorgeous place, full of light and joyful laughter. As a young teenager I sold the August Pink Sheet to the patrons at the bar; running back to Mr. Shay's Plymouth wagon with my arms empty and my tip pocket full.

As the owner of Prices Dairy from 1979-1989 I was able to witness the final years of this gem from the back door where I would make my deliveries of milk and sour cream. As downtown Saratoga thrived in the 80's, the jewels on the outskirts began to weaken.

I met the current owner one day many years ago and he spoke of possible resurrection, but I think that dream has passed by. For now the queen of Church Street lay weak, overgrown, and gasping.

She will be missed. She has been missed for nearly a decade. Maybe just maybe she could be saved. For now I will just close my eyes and breathe in the smell of sizzling steaks on the grill. I will listen carefully to the sounds of clinking cocktail glasses full of friendship and good cheer. I will drive on by one more day, watching...

Ash Grove Inn

by John R. Greenwood

hardwood floors well worn with age

soaked with years of parties and dance

large open windows to the fields behind

where cows once grazed and milk was born

panes of pain now cracked and sore

shattered in dreams of what once was

those who remember in numbers declining

they too sit restless

waiting for another order to be placed

I found this simple video that I felt exemplified the spirit of this aging beauty: The Ash Grove

July 28, 2012

Arghhh!

By John R. Greenwood

Okay, here's the deal, no more Mr. Nice Guy. No poetry or pretty flower pictures today. I've got something to say and I'm going to say it. Mrs. G says she's heard enough. Her words exactly,"Your supposed to be Mr. Writer, here's a pen, go get it off your chest. Write it down. Let it out." So as any man whose been married for as long as I have; I do as I'm told.

Rant: What the hell are the idiots in retail marketing doing? Have these Men in Whites, gone mad? Why has trying to pay for a package of t-shirts turned into a Colonel Klink interrogation of Hogan. Why is it necessary for me to cough up my email address when all I want to do is hand Miss Fourhoursaweekend an Andy Jackson and go home. No!, I don't have a Coal's Kard, and I don't want to waste another five minutes of my life filling out an application so I can save 15% on a two-pack of overpriced t-shirts, that I'd end up paying off in 2015 at a cost $125. Oh, okay, so now you're allowing me to not use a charge card as long as I give you my zip code. I'll give you my zip code! Zipp-a-dee-do-da 123 everybody get the hell away from me! I've lived within a 30 mile radius for 57 years and I have purchased hundreds of t-shirts at places you've never even heard of sweetheart. High class places like The Joy Store, Woolworth's, JJ Newberry's and Jamesway and they never needed my zip code to take my money. IN FACT, they always greeted me with a smile and a, "How are you this evening?" And they never whisked me away staring off into the wild blue muttering a, "Have a good one." What the hell does that mean anyway? Have a good what; life?, heartattack?, brain hemorrage? Oh no!, I hope I don't need my license plate number to purchase that 2pk-500ct. Tylenol at Whoa-Is-Me Greens? Off I go to Stables for a 10pk of Bic Pens. It's their annual July Back-to-School Extravaganza. You guessed it. "Uh, do you have a Stables Reward Card?" he says. Huh? I have to give you a card then cash? Why don't you just lower the damn price and save us all from card-hell? I need another card like we need another tea flavor in the world. If I carried all the stupid cards needed to get from Monday to Sunday my back ass pocket would look like I was carrying a 4x4 fence post in it. No wonder my back looks like the S-curves on Daniel's Road and I keep a chiropractor in BMW's. Well, at least I can buy a sandwich without producing an email address, zip code, or photo ID. Not so fast, I don't even have the words *ham and sw.... out of my mouth and Scooter asks me for my, 'My Panorama Card'. He already has his hand out waiting for me to hand him proof that I am an upstanding and faithful member of the Panorama Family. The probability that I am going to forget my order by the time I dig the My Panorama Card out of the musty depths of my wallet is very high. By now I am about ready to run into the streets screaming but I don't because I am a hungry mature adult. I have an AARP card to prove it; if I can find it. It is at this point my patience begins quivering and things get hairy. I fill up my lungs, pump up my chest and with all the politeness I can muster I look Scooter square in his baby brown eyes and say, "Just what does handing this card to you do for me? I have been using this card here since Santa flew overhead and I haven't got a clue why?" His head drops to the left, just a little askew and he says, "It helps us track your order. And once in awhile they give you a couple dollars off your order." I tilt my head to the left so we match and can look at each other eye to eye and I say, "I've spent $1,000 dollars here this summer paying for bowls of lettuce at ten bucks a clip and you haven't given me so much as a free cup of ice. But that's okay, as long as you can track my order from one end of the counter to the other using this card, we'll both be happy." Needing to get out of there before the Saratoga County Sheriff's Department has to be called, I ask for the order To-Go. As I stand there waiting for an extra long time for my name to be called. I notice a large To-Go bag sitting there unclaimed. I shuffle up to the counter and ask Chief Chef in a whisper if there is a possibility that's my order because I've been waiting quite awhile. As God as my witness she says, "Are you Patricia?" I pull out my wallet and check my My Panorama Card and I'll be a SOB, she was right. That damn card was smarter than I was, I had Mrs. G's card all that time and didn't even know it! Note: This part is 100% true. I also asked for a Chicken Caesar Salad, to which the well scripted, mind altered, and programed Scooter responded, "Did you want that with chicken?"

July 26, 2012

Support can come in many forms. The most common is lending an ear. Leaning in close and hearing what's being said, not just absorbing sound waves. Many times that is enough. Sometimes we are not asking for reaction or solution we are simply asking for someones time. Time is precious for sure but so is friendship and compassion. When people huddle together arm in arm there is a strength that pulses from one heart to the next. In these times of pointing fingers and rifles it seems like a good time to remind ourselves how important a circle of friends can be. When rains come and the cold of night breaches our comfort zone we always look for the warmth of friendship. An open doorway, lighted and welcome is all we seek when the storm is brewing overhead. It can begin with a handshake or a hug, one friend then two. Before you know it the main table is full and you're unfolding the card table and searching for more chairs. That's how it should work. Building support for a common cause. Nudging and encouraging those who need it most. Let's lean in more and step back less. Open your eyes and ears. Look in your own backyard. You can learn a lot from a patio chair.

It doesn't matter where you are there's always that one person who stands out in a crowd. It can be in a good way. It can be in a bad way. But, there is always at least one who must speak louder, look bolder, or slump so bad their shoulder tops touch. Are you the one? Do you stand on your toes and jump up high to be seen? Do you pout so bad your friends whisper when you leave? There was a time long ago you could get a tattoo or dye your hair orange to stand out. A toolbox hanging from your lip doesn't even muster a raised pierced brow anymore. I knew if I lived long enough being tat free would be cool. You should see me in my bellbottoms. This post has no true meaning, I simply loved the photo and the caption I created. I attempted to make statement. I think I failed. Hey, I just speak the truth. Whoa, wait a minute, maybe I'm on to something.

July 22, 2012

She dreamt a dream long, long ago. We listened, ears tilted, from the table behind. We heard her whisper her tale to the lady at the table beside her. She told of her love of horses and riding. She whispered her dream. She smiled on the outside. Her life's passion throbbing deep below. She was athletic as a young girl, but young girls long ago did not have the same opportunities as the young boys. Oh what a joy riding did give her she said. You could see the sparkle in her eyes. She told of a girl disguised; disguised as a boy so that she could exercise the horses. The men watched a young spirit riding free along the rail not knowing it was really a female wrapped in boys clothes racing to her dreams. Her horse kicking up the turf behind as if to say, "Hang on tight my ponytailed rider, I will set you free, if only for a moment in time." She sat there for the longest time absorbing the sound of pounding hooves, the sights of a thousand dreams. I sensed some discontent. I saw a breath of acceptance. The door was open a bit wider now. The track sprinkled with female riders warming and coaxing the galloping thunder below. Later we spotted our pink lady on the backstretch taking a walking tour of the barns. She was waxing nostalgic just as we were. She had a little trot in her eighty year old step. I think the good memories had smothered the sad. I will remember the day for some time and the young girl in the straw hat.

July 21, 2012

Do I have to be red to be a barn? Shouldn't my ability to shelter and protect be enough to be labeled a barn? I work as hard as those red guys; but they get all the recognition. I was built by the same hands that built Mr. Red. My creator simply had a different vision of what I should look like. The hammers and saws that molded me into the barn I am today are the same tools used on Mr. Red. I am as strong as he is. If you had no eyes to see and you needed shelter, would I not keep you as dry as he? I feel beautiful on the outside too. I take pride in my appearance. Who's to judge? I am sure there are many people that drive by me who think I am worthy of being called a barn. I care about what's inside of me. If you were being threatened by a raging bull, I would stand tall and protect you from being hurt. The color of my boards would not matter. The only thing that would matter would be how brave I am. Being yellow doesn't mean I'm scared any more than being red in the face means you are embarrassed to be painted red. I am proud to be a barn in the USA. I am yellow but I was born here too. My builder was an immigrant and so was yours Mr. Red Barn. They both came here with their own idea of what makes a useful barn. Color is a preference, not a qualification. I stand by my right to be yellow and I will support your right to be red. What if all the red paint in the world was dried up and your son the well-house had to be painted to keep him safe from the rain and the snow? What if the only paint left in the USA was brown; wouldn't you still want him painted? Wouldn't you still call him son if he was brown? You would, wouldn't you?

July 19, 2012

*I did the math. From 1974 to 2012 I have been shrilled awake by an alarm clock approximately 10,000 times. I then shuffled to the shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, got dressed, and headed off to work. Unless that Powerball ticket hits I have at least another 2500 left; hopefully more. Work defines me. It does for many of us. I am not complaining. I am grateful that my father instilled a good work ethic in me. It has provided a home, and food on my table. Work initiated most of my current friendships. Labor in both collar colors, has kept me vital and engaged. I take pride in going to work. On the flip side; I, like most, have been known to do a little Yabba Dabba leaving the parking lot.

To show proof of my work history there is an accompanying photo of a little red note book with work documentation dating back as far as 1964. I would have been nine years old. Apparently on July 15th 1964 it took me four hours to feed Mr. & Mrs. Blodgett's cat. Well, maybe that was for the week? That works out to about a half hour opening, spooning, and arranging the cat's food each day. I probably provided some petting and small talk as part of my professional cat feeding skills. Then after several weeks riding my bike and collecting unemployment from mom, I spent a half hour helping Mrs. Dake clean lawn furniture in preparation for their summer guests. On August 4th I was hired by my grandmother next door. I probably mowed her lawn and did some trimming. That skill would serve me well for the next 50 years. On August 5th I worked a half hour somewhere? Maybe I planned to work somewhere? Maybe someone still owes me for that time? Let's see, 5o cents an hour plus interest?

*I could be off by as many as 5,000 as I was asleep during most of my math classes.

Gray O. Mann: The word important is subjective. I treat people as I would like them to treat me. I think that is very important. I never litter and I always obey STOP signs. I think that too is important. I respect the opinions of others. I hold doors open for men, women, and children. I say, "Please" and "Thank you." I feel that is important.

Interviewer:Are you relevant to the world?

Gray O. Mann:Will they mention my passing on CBS Sunday Morning-probably not. Will the world slow a bit when I'm gone-not even a hiccup. But I can't help but think if all the Grey O. Mann's in the world were to suddenly disappear overnight, there might be a reason for some concern.

Interviewer: Do you have a purpose?

Gray O. Mann:Mypurpose is to give my best. If Gray, does his best and Gray's children do their best, and Gray's grandchildren follow the foot steps of Grandpa Mann we have at least increased the odds that others will follow.

Interviewer:Are you useful?

Gray O. Mann: I am worn and smooth. On the outside I appear old and rusty. My usefulness has long been forgotten. I hang still on the fence. I remain strong and true; my spirit tempered and straight. I am left here absorbing the beauty of my surroundings, bothering no one. As the masses pass by, they do not care of my usefulness today or yesterday. They blink for a moment and wonder what was I used for so long ago. Then time grabs their hand and yanks them away, leaving me here hanging, hoping someone will find another use for me someday soon.

July 13, 2012

My first realization of becoming a grown-up occurred after passing the half-century mark. You might think getting married at the age of nineteen, some thirty-four years earlier would fit the essay more appropriately but after contemplating the topic thoroughly, and after being bare bones honest with myself, it became clear when the true defining moment occurred. Losing your last surviving parent, regardless of your age, is going to clarify, not who you are, but who you believe you are. That event made me realize I was now a true grown-up. The loss of a parent will always be a life-altering event. Becoming a gray haired orphan changes something inside you. Even as an adult, if you have a surviving parent, you are still someone’s child. The dynamic of your life changes when that last parent is no longer there for you. The ability to gauge personal success or failure becomes murky. From your earliest recollections, a child’s goal is to please their mother and father. When you suddenly lose that barometer of parental approval, you are thrust into grown-up status. That is true whether you are a teenager or an AARP cardholder. At fifty-plus and parent-less, the transformation from child to grown-up is now complete. There is no one left to please but you and your spouse. The path of life now widens just a little and in some ways, it can be enlightening. Your only audience left is the spouse who has become accustomed to your (small list) of faults. As a card-carrying grown-up, you now care more about enjoying an uninterrupted nap and less about the opinion of others. Being a grown-up is being out-on-a-limb with no net. It is all you. No one left to field the blame. From newborn to parent-less grown-up you belong to someone. From that day forward, you belong to yourself. What do you want to be now that you are a grown-up? I have always wanted to touch nerves, pinch emotions, to stir a motionless being, to activate laughter, to bring a tear to a dry-eyed statue, to push a frozen soul, to pull a frightened friend from darkened depths. The time was never right. The day was never long enough. Now I am a full-blown grown-up. I miss my parents. They wanted the best for me. We do not always know what is best. Sometimes you have to figure it out on your own. For those adults searching life’s classifieds for something to buy, you have the money but you’re not sure what to spend it on. Blow it on your dream. Risk it all. Let it ride. Gamble on happiness. By the time you realize you’re grown-up it may be too late.

I wrote this piece for and submitted it to a contest in a magazine a couple of years ago. For the contest you were to write about the first time you knew you were a grown-up. I haven't heard from them about winning a trip abroad so I guess it didn't place first. My life has taken a wonderful turn recently and writing is a large part of it. Being involved in the Hubbard Hall Writing Project and having Jon Katz as our quarterback has become one of the most enlightening opportunities I have ever experienced. And we're just beginning! I pulled this out of the archives and as I reread it, it seemed an appropriate compliment to the current status of my life and the others in the the group. It's funny how life keeps circling around picking up pieces here and setting them off to the side there. Always returning to the past as you try to maneuver the future.

That was the prize for losing a finger in 1974. I do not think of it often. It happened a long time ago. I was nineteen, newly married and working 8 days a week. You worked as many hours as you could to make that $75 trailer payment every month. The lot where we planted our 12' x 70' castle was a gift from mom and dad. They lived next door; just a curtain pull away. The arrangement did not have a prayer. Mom’s first inquiry, “Why didn’t John go to work yesterday?” resulted in an expected young wife response. Moving day was quick to follow and life would never be the same.

It happened quickly. I knew what I had done. That old 1940’s butter churn named, ‘Big Butter’ looked like an old Civil War cannon. He was cream colored and butter cream filled. I was just beginning the day adjusting, attaching, filling, and monitoring ‘Big Butter’. He was stubborn and had a mind of his own. Butter making is an art. The moisture has to be just right. The salt you add must be fine-tuned. ‘Big Butter’ could not help himself. He was determined to act up, spitting butter up through the salt chute. “Don’t put your hand in there”. You know better. Common sense was my best attribute. Where did it go today? When you hear a little voice on your shoulder, listen to it. The body part you lose may be your own.

A poor decision and a split second later, I am heading for the front door of the Saratoga Dairy squeezing my right forefinger as tight as I can without breaking it. I did not panic;I did yell for help. “Grab a set of keys, we’re going for a ride.” ‘911’ did not exist in 1974. It hurt badly. I was afraid. There had been speed runs to the emergency room in my past and there would others in my future.

This speed run involved a brand-spanking new Ford Thunderbird. A beautiful dark green Thunderbird that now boasted of blood stained carpets. My supervisor/ambulance driver was as scared as I was. After all, he was responsible for my safety. I was just a kid working 60 hours a week making less than five dollars an hour.

I walked through the emergency room under my own power. The following minutes were a blur. I do remember nurses parking me in the hall for what seemed like hours.

They had found the end of my finger and brought it to the hospital. Doc Rockwell was old school. There would be no reattachments for Doc Rockwell. ‘Doc’ said it would be stiff and cumbersome. The choice though, was mine. I made the right decision. “Just sew it up ‘Doc’, I don’t care what it looks like, I have a trailer payment to make.” I returned to work two weeks later with a plastic bag and masking tape. There would be no lawyers for me. To be very honest, it never crossed my mind. I am proud of that.

Thirty-four years later, I watched a true story of a logger who lost a hand in a poorly wrapped cinch chain. He spent a year sending back uncashed compensation checks to the State because as he explained, “I’m the one who did something I shouldn’t have. Why should others pay for my mistake?” Instead he engineered and built his own mechanical hand as a replacement. That is a true man in my eyes.

I was not that brave. I did receive 100% compensation for that individual finger. The New York State Compensation Board Blue Book of Body Parts; along with calculations of age, ability, and future earning expectations was used to come to a figure of $4,000 as a fair price for the loss of my finger. Sign-off is the magic word the New York State Compensation Board wants to hear. Sign the check; close the case.

One year later, I bought my growing family, with the broken father, a $600 Magnavox color console television set. That beauty was as big as the sofa. We raised a family on that television. Every time I turned on that Magnavox Monster, I thought of the ‘Big Butter’.

July 08, 2012

As I was trimming 'Little Walter' (yes we name our shrubs) it occurred to me the sense of renewal a little trim above the ears can give us. We clutter up and start to overgrow our planters. Our roots get all bunched and it becomes difficult to absorb nourishment. You can sprinkle and spread expensive fertilizers on us and for a few weeks we will bloom all bright and glorious but then we lose track. That fertilizer-high wears off and we start tripping over our feet. A good thorough trim is called for. You have to squat down low and start at the bottom, clipping the little runners near the ground. Then you slowly follow the sturdy branches out, snipping the ragged and bitchy. You open up and let the sun flow. It begins to beam in and warm the heart of our story.

Once we clean up the debris and shake out the nonsense, breathing seems less labored. The air blows our hair back and lifts the chin ever so slight. A weight now lifted- our stance tall and true, we look pessimism square in eye and smile...

July 07, 2012

This is not about a fever that needs a thermometer to check, it's about a living fever. A fever about living. I'm no kid but lately I feel like one. It has to do with people. I hit a the mother lode recently. Don't get me wrong, I have always been surrounded by good people. Everywhere I worked and played good people were a huge part of my life. This is something with a feel unlike anything I've experienced. It's like striking a mineral deposit in your backyard. One that promises to yield inspiring dividends far into the future. The members of my writing group are as similar as they are varied. I like that. Some of those similarities would include descriptions like compassionate and supportive. The differences don't matter. I believe the fever is caused by a common desire to express ourselves in a way we've yet to discover. This group is not so much about honing skills as it is about discovering them. At least that's the way I feel about it. I don't want to speak for the others. This is more than a group wanting to write. In some ways we are a microcosm of what society needs to return to. Lets stopping pointing out what's wrong and begin embracing what's right. If everyone who reads this in the next 3o days were to step into the world outside their backdoor and start spreading seeds of support and encouragement there would be a positive impact made on at least one little corner. In a year we might make it around the block. Then who knows?

July 05, 2012

It's 10:30pm on this Fourth of July 2012. There were no fireworks for us this year. The day was spent uneventfully and quietly. There is no sadness in that. That is the way we sometimes need it to be. That is the reason I fly the Red, White, and Blue proudly off the post on my front porch. The significance of it is quite large. I can do what ever I want to and not worry about who does or doesn't like it. You may have an opinion- most people do. Many share them more than necessary. But the feeling of freedom is something we take very much for granted. I try not to. I like my little slice. I like that I can move about my country without fear. It is not so easy in other parts of the world. Yes, we like to complain about Big Brother and bite our nails worrying if the president is going to knock on our door some night and confiscate our deer rifle. I wouldn't worry. I think he's a little busy right now. This isn't a political rant. I like my president. I think he's a good guy. I trust him. Pssst. Remember what I wrote above. You can have your opinion. I can have mine. We would all be much better off if we all just got behind the wagon and started pushing it in the same direction. All we are doing now is pushing from the front and the back and collapsing from exhaustion while going no where. Let's all agree we need to move it somewhere because its sinking in the mud where it sits right now. I just can't get too worked up over the other guy 'smiley' with the hiked up jeans. I'm not sure he believes half the stuff he says. I don't know enough about policy and politics to argue with an eight year old so you don't have to comment on this post. What I would like is for everyone to look around them and see if they really have it so bad. There are many people struggling for sure. I know what it's like to use a cash advance to pay the minimum due. I've owned a business and then I didn't. But everything I would like to complain about is quite frankly my own fault and caused by my own bad decisions. I always did what I thought was the best thing to do at the time. What I did learn was to keep going forward. Backing is unsafe. That's why they install backup alarms- to warn you that your going the wrong direction. *The horn is to ask those stopped in traffic to move over and let you by. Use it. You have living to do. Note*This is living advice not driving advice.

July 04, 2012

I am technologically frozen. I sit here attempting to function on my have-to-have-it-because-everyone-else-does iPad. I feel like the little kid who has a hissy fit watching his friends do something he can not do. Oh, if I had just listened to the adults who told me to go to college. Would I be more in tune with technology? Would be able I keep up better? Just when I start to roll backwards my emergency brake takes hold. I have to keep doing this little reevaluation exercise where I look back at what has happened to me in the last few years. There was a point when I actually sat wondering if I really needed to learn how to use a computer. I felt I was so old I may just as well save myself the aggravation and throw in the towel right there and live out my life waiting for the day when I would retire and go to Florida with my Will and Social Security Check. I'm glad I don't listen well. I'm glad I woke up and latched on to the trains grab handle. Look what I would have missed. I also know that I am not alone in the "Technofrust" world. There is an entire industry devoted to it called "Help". But as you may have noticed men don't like to ask for help. We stamp our feet and throw things until somebody pays attention and says, "What's wrong? Can I help?" So here I stomp. Here I stay. It's okay though. I think I will just grab the next train and see where that leads me.

Raining Iguanas

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Raining Iguanas

About Me

Can’t carry a tune or lend you money.
Worked as a real life milkman and nine-fingered machine operator.
Prefers paper or plastic.
Loves meeting strange people in normal places.
Sends poetry and stories to anyone who won’t listen.
Dream is ongoing